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About Me

Ronan Cray lives in New York City when he isn't holed up in his writer's shack in rural Pennsylvania. He remains inspired by people and their stories. New York provides ample inspiration for both. Torn between meeting new people and staying home on the couch, he channels this conflict into his work. The result... you decide.

Haunting.
It sounds better than stalking.
Because it is.
A stalker shows up outside your house. They look through your mail. They wait for you at your favorite places. They peek in the windows. They want to be a part of your life. A big part.
You close the shades. You leave town. You file a restraining order.
The real world sucks.
Social media is different.
If social media were the real world,

Alcohol is a depressant. We forget that as we dance the night away. But soon it opens our eyes to the tired people around us. The women, desperate trollops dressed up in hopes of impregnation. The men, in fits of testosterone fury. All reduced to the basest instincts of procreation, frivolity, and sadness. And you. Alcohol holds up a mirror and shouts, "Laugh, you fool. Laugh before you cry!"I want no more of this. But others; they live for this... release. They beg alcohol to loose the chains of societal oppression. They proceed with another and another. They throw away the compass even as the fog closes in, as if this gesture lends the illusion of freedom. You must, you must get lost with them or you are shunned. Into the darkness you go. Tomorrow be damned for today. The darker it gets, the less you pretend to feel, until the illusion cocoons you in bliss. Then morning lights your silk on fire.

I live in New
York, and every building I walk into has a man behind a desk asking me to sign
in. I think about those men. For eight hours a day they sit at a desk, bored
beyond belief. They expend 1000 calories, occupy two square feet, consume 185
liters of oxygen, and ingest several cups of water all to provide a modest
amount of security for the people upstairs who pretty much do the same thing.

Is this what
their parents hoped for when they spent eighteen years raising them? Is this an
adequate result of twelve years of school? Was this worth emigrating thousands
of miles? Is this a reason to get up in the morning?

This week one of my
novels won an award, but I did not attend the ceremony. I'd like to say I
eschew popular support or that I write for arts' sake or some similar nonsense.
No. The truth is, I avoided it. I am very grateful for the selection and
pleased that someone not only read my work but was inspired to an opinion. That
said, the only way to weather the manic storm of infamy is to watertight both
bow and stern against the spittle of the masses.

Authorship is self-motivational. Seldom are we asked to
retire from humanity for the lengthy production of speculative work. No, we
bring it on ourselves and, whether tortuous or fair, some part of us believes
the exercise worthwhile, either for our own benefit or the edification of our
peers. I believe the concise word is 'conceit'. For that reason, the best thing
that can happen to any author is

Now more
than ever, all authors must self-promote in order to survive. But how do you do
that without irritating your audience? Here are five things to watch out for:

Self-promotion
on Twitter. One word. Don’t. This holds for any form of social media. Too
often, you see writers who only tweet like this: “This is my favorite sentence
from my book! Buy it here: bitly/xy123”. If I wanted ads in my feed, I’d go to
Facebook. Twitter is a way to connect and build an audience. To do that, you
need to post something the reader finds interesting.

Maybe you've heard of Kickstarter? It's the new diet and exercise program. You worry about pledges to the exclusion of eating and run around looking for donors. It's more grueling than a zombie 5K. But don't take my word for it. Read my recent post over at The Scrib!

I worked my way through college, and one of the most demeaning jobs I took was a mascot for a casino. I sweated in a giant duck costume like a deep sea diver, making my way through the casino to promote a new gaming machine. I couldn't see anything through the mask, so someone led me through the narrow aisles between ringing slot and poker machines. Old men pinched my tail feathers, convinced only a woman would take such a job. Anyone shorter than me got tripped over. At the end of the day, they thanked me politely for my time, paid me, and said I didn't need to return tomorrow.

So it wasn't without experience that I donned another costume to appear in public. This experience was much better.

I participated in the New Jersey Zombie Walk 2013 in Asbury Park. The Guinness Book of World Records was on hand to officially announce it the largest gathering of zombies in the world. 9,592 zombies stalked the boardwalk in gleaming artificial blood, flaking latex, and gore. The variety was stunning.

Back in college I ran for Student Senate. Voter turnout was low the previous years, so I set a goal: win more votes than the highest voted person last year. I had no campaign manager, no team, nothing. I spoke in front of auditoriums filled with students, published articles in the school paper, inked out hand made signs based on Burma Shave ads paced out to and from the stadium and library.
The result?

I often question the worth of the words I write. Does the world really need another gruesome horror novel? I look at writers like Nicholas Sparks and think, the world needs more writers like that, stories with romance and tension without death and carnage. The world is a tough, brutal place that needs a little light now and then.
A that's the problem.